


to have and to hold

by stammiviktor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (except not really), (kinda), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective Katsuki Yuuri, Time Travel, Viktor Deserves the World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 04:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor
Summary: Long, half-polished fingers comb through a strand of hair, smoothing it over his shoulder. “Who are you? Do you know me?”Yuuri feels something soft settle in his heart. The boy standing in front of the mirror may be eleven years younger, but this is still his Viktor."I know you, Vitya."[traduction enfrançais]





	to have and to hold

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [to have and to hold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338601) by [PompomSamael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PompomSamael/pseuds/PompomSamael)



> As usual, you can blame [Rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome)\- she keeps hurting young Viktor and then taking forever to fix it, so here we are!
> 
> Also: the lovely Maëva has translated this story to French! If that interests you, you can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338601).
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

On May 18th, 2018, the night before his wedding day, Katsuki Yuuri has a dream so vivid that he could swear it was real.

The apartment looks the same in some ways and drastically different in others—namely, it’s not _theirs._ Not yet, at least. The bookshelf holds not a single book in Japanese. The TV is at least a foot thick and entirely devoid of his Nintendo Switch. There’s no rice-cooker on the kitchen counter and none of Yuuri’s jackets on the coat rack. Next to the door sits a single skate bag; next to the sink, a lonely wine glass.

Outside the windows, snow is falling and night has settled in. Clear moonlight filters through the windows and catches on the sheer curtains, illuminating the living room and kitchen of an apartment that looks much like it did when Yuuri moved in. Even now, however, it feels less lived in, like it leapt off the pages of a fine living catalog, fully furnished and strikingly empty.

Yuuri drifts down the hallway to the open door of the guest room and finds it littered with full and half-empty cardboard boxes labelled in scribbled Russian cursive he can’t even hope to understand. The mattress is unmade. The painting they bought at a Christmas market last year is noticeably, but predictably, absent from the wall above it.

He heads further down the hall, and their bedroom door doesn’t creak when he pushes it open. Here, someone has drawn the blinds and turned on the bedside lamp, but even in the warm light the room manages to feel cold. At the foot of the bed is Makkachin, curled in a ball and fast asleep. She does not stir when Yuuri passes.

As he approaches the open bathroom door, he has to take a deep breath to steady himself. Somehow, he knows what he will find before the scene comes into view: framed in the doorway, standing in front of the mirror, silver hair hanging freely down to the base of his spine is Viktor.

Even in profile, there is something in Viktor’s vacant expression that makes the back of Yuuri’s neck prickle. He doesn’t turn, even as Yuuri walks toward him, through the doorway, into the bathroom and onto the tile floor. In the mirror, their eyes finally meet, and the change is instantaneous.

Viktor, suddenly, has a smile as radiant and pleasant as the sun.

“ _Privyet!”_

Yuuri knows the truth about that smile, but he cannot help but smile back. “Hi.”

“Who are you?" Viktor asks into the mirror, his mouth stiff and unwavering.

"I'm Yuuri."

Viktor blinks. Long, half-polished fingers comb through a strand of hair, smoothing it over his shoulder. "Do you know me, Yuuri?"

 _Know_ , Yuuri thinks, and feels something soft settle in his heart. He means _know of me_ , surely; he's not asking the question Yuuri hears, the question he finds himself responding to: do you know my heart, do you know my body, do you know my life and love better than you know your own?

The boy standing in front of the mirror may be eleven years younger, but this is still his Viktor.

"I know you, Vitya."

In the mirror, the boy's smile shatters and falls away. His hands drop from his hair.

“Ah.”

“Come on,” Yuuri says, holding his hand out. “I’ll make you tea.”

When Viktor finally turns to face him, the differences are more obvious—slighter shoulders, slimmer waist, a slightly lower hairline. His hand, though, takes Yuuri’s and, half-chipped polish or not, it is _Viktor._ Their fingers slot together without thought and without question, and when a smile pulls at the corner of Viktor’s lips it’s transparently, terribly genuine.

“Okay.”

They walk, hand in hand, back to the living room and open kitchen, Yuuri flicking on lights as they go. He only lets go when it becomes clear he needs both hands for the task at hand: grabbing the kettle, filling it with water, setting it on the stovetop, and trying to remember where Viktor had kept the tea and mugs before Yuuri moved in and had to rearrange every square centimeter of storage space to fit both of their belongings.

“Third cabinet to the right,” Viktor supplies, standing on the other side of the island with his arms hanging listless at his side. Yuuri nods and grabs the mugs, then continues his search. “And the tea is—”

“Found it!” Yuuri yanks open the drawer below the sink. “You really only have Lipton?”

“Lipton is good!”

Yuuri thinks, _how in the world did I agree to marry you,_ and says, “Okay, Vitya.”

“Oh, and for the stove, you need to…” He trails off as Yuuri successfully lights the front left burner in a specific but well-practiced movement of the wrist.

“...to jiggle it. Wow. Impressive!”

A few minutes later the kettle whistles and Yuuri pours the water into two mugs that are just devoid enough of personality to have come with the fully-furnished apartment. They aren’t the ‘#2 Dad’ and Studio Ghibli-themed mugs that Yurio had gotten them for Christmas last year, but they will do. Screwing up his face, he betrays all of his ancestors and countrymen at once and rips open the paper package to place the tea bag in the hot water.

To make matters worse, he then has to open the fridge and grab black currant preserves from the top shelf and bastardize the beverage even further. Viktor watches him, wide-eyed with his elbows propped on the island countertop, as Yuuri spoons the sickly-sweet syrup into both mugs. It’s not like Yuuri will be drinking it anyhow.

“Wow, Yuuri!” he exclaims when he takes the first sip. “It’s perfect!”

Yuuri grabs his own mug as fondness swells in his chest. “Come on, Vitya, let’s sit on the couch.”

Horrible tea in hand, they round the sofa and sit down on the too-stiff cushions. They leave room enough between them that Makkachin, who has woken up and decided she wants attention, can leap up and settle at Viktor’s right and Yuuri’s left. She curls herself in a ball so tiny, so _precious,_ that an involuntary noise squeaks out from Yuuri’s throat. Her fur is just as soft and warm as always, and she still vibrates with happiness when he scratches that one spot beneath her left ear.

“She loves you, Yuuri!”

Yuuri laughs, so sharp and pure that he startles himself. “She is easy to love.”

“She is the _easiest_ to love,” Viktor agrees, smoothing down the fur along her side. “I’m not sure everyone thinks so, though. I think Lilia is happy she’s gone.”

The comment confirms Yuuri’s suspicions. “You just moved out, then.”

“Yes. About time, I think. I’ll be eighteen next week, you know!”

Yuuri, admittedly, is very familiar with eighteen-year-old Viktor Nikiforov. It was this season, post-growth spurt but pre-haircut, that brought fourteen-year-old Yuuri three of his favorite posters and his first real sexual awakening. How many interviews and short programs and free skates and exhibitions had he watched, over and over again until he had every word and jump and step sequence memorized? It had been Viktor’s free skate from this season that had brought Yuuri through his first successfully-managed panic attack. He’d retraced in his mind every mesmerizing stroke of those John Wilson Pattern 99 gold-plated blades until he could breathe again.

Yuuri was familiar with Viktor Nikiforov at this age, but entirely unfamiliar with Vitya. All he knows is the stories he’s heard and the guesses he has made.

(A few months ago, he happened to watch one of his favorite interviews from this same season over again, and found so much that he’d never noticed before: the stiffness of Viktor’s media-ready smile, the slight twitch of his mouth when the reporter asked how he felt about the day’s results, and the practiced way he deflects the question in the end.)

(And now, sitting next to that same boy, on his brand new couch in his brand new apartment, when Yuuri glances up at him he can see Vitya and Viktor Nikiforov both.)

“It’s much quieter here,” Viktor admits, glancing around the empty apartment. He shrugs. “Less arguing, though.”

The summer of 2007, Yakov and Lilia had filed for divorce. Viktor, still seventeen, had moved out earlier than expected. Makkachin squirms, repositions herself, and whines until they resume petting her.

“It is a good thing you have each other,” Yuuri says.

“It is.” There’s something sad about Viktor’s smile. “She always loves me, don’t you, Makka? Hmm? Even when I don’t bring home any medals for you to play with?”

Here’s the thing about Viktor’s 2007-2008 competitive season: it was his second year in the senior division, he had attempted to choreograph his own short program, and he didn’t win a single gold. At the Grand Prix Final, which must have just happened, he had placed fifth. At Russian nationals he will get third, at Europeans fourth, and shortly before World’s he will injure his knee and withdraw from the rest of the season, and eventually the next season’s Grand Prix Series as well.

But Yuuri loved that season, despite it all. He loved the elegance of Viktor’s free, and the sheer creative potential of his short even if he knows Viktor does not feel the same way.

“Fifth in the world is an amazing accomplishment, Vitya.”

Viktor affirms, “It is,” as detached as if Yuuri had simply said _it’s cold outside._

“But you are sad.”

The pale hand on Makkachin’s back freezes and Yuuri waits and watches for the moment Viktor looks up at him. It doesn’t happen.

“I won gold every year in Juniors,” Viktor says instead, still looking down at his dog.

“Seniors is different. You know that.”

Now, _now_ he looks up, pushing his long bangs behind his ear and meeting Yuuri’s gaze with a challenge in his eyes. “But I’m supposed to be different too, aren’t I? Russia’s Rising Star?” His mouth twists into a warped smile. “The boy with the long silver hair that no one is quite convinced can be human?”

Yuuri recognizes that phrase, word for word, and he can tell you exactly which article it came from. He cannot, however, tell you how many arguments he got into on online forums about the author’s objectively incorrect opinions on Viktor’s choreographic ability.

“You shouldn’t read that stuff,” Yuuri replies, his voice faint. It’s rich coming from him, he knows full well; luckily, Viktor does not.

Viktor blinks. There’s a question on his tongue, Yuuri can tell by the way his eyebrows scrunch up just _so,_ but Viktor swallows it instead and replies, “Yakov tells me that, too.”

Yuuri frowns. “It doesn’t matter what they think,” he says, because it suddenly feels crucial that Viktor know this.

“No,” Viktor agrees. “But I need to keep going. I need to win.”

 _It doesn’t matter what they think,_ Yuuri said, but he knows that means nothing. It may not matter what the fans and the media and the FFKK think, but it matters what _Viktor_ thinks, and Yuuri has spent the past two years attempting to unravel the decades’ worth of internalization that led Viktor himself to be his own most unrelenting, unforgiving critic.

“You don’t need to—”

“I do!” Viktor interrupts, catching Yuuri’s gaze deliberately this time. All Yuuri sees is poorly-veiled desperation that makes his stomach twist. “You don’t understand, Yuuri.”

“Believe me, I do.”

“No, I—” Viktor’s fingers curl around soft, brown tufts of fur. “I need to win, I _need_ to,” he echoes, and when he looks away from Yuuri his eyes wander purposelessly around his empty apartment. “Or else…”

Yuuri waits, his heart beating his his throat, his nails digging into his palms.

“...Or else it will be like this forever.”

The breath punches out of Yuuri’s lungs. “Vitya...”

“I’d prefer not to talk about it anymore.”

“ _Viktor—”_

“Yuuri.”

That tone is familiar, and it sends a chill down Yuuri’s spine. They don’t argue often, but when they do, Viktor always uses that voice to attempt to shut it down before anything has a chance to begin. It makes it worse—it always makes it worse—and this isn’t even an _argument_ right now but…

Yuuri lets it go. He has time. They have time.

Makkachin and her quiet breathing and warm fur is common ground. Yuuri scratches under her ear, back and forth and back and forth. She loves it just as much as she does when she’s older.

“Mm,” he hums at her, a habit he picked up from his fiancé. His voice is low and rumbly and nearly unintelligible, only really meant for their dog’s ears. “Such a good girl, _ty moya lapochka,_ yes you are, Makka-chan.”

A funny noise escapes from Viktor’s throat. “You speak Russian?”

“I’m trying to learn,” Yuuri admits. “I’m not very good, though. My accent is terrible.”

Viktor bristles. “I think it’s cute.”

“Ah. You’re kind, Vitya.”

And Viktor blushes. _Blushes._ Then he says, “That’s her favorite spot.”

Yuuri pauses. “Huh?”

Viktor inclines his head at the small dog between them. “Under her left ear. She’ll let you do that all day…” A strange expression crosses his face. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Yuuri decides in that moment that the timeline, if this even counts as part of a timeline, has already been shot to hell and back. It takes some maneuvering to use his right hand to fish his wallet from his left pocket while his other hand is occupied petting Makkachin, but eventually he succeeds. His fingers flick past their engagement photo and pulls out a small picture of their dog on Hasetsu beach, taken only weeks ago, with Makkachin facing the phone camera directly and her tongue lolling out of her mouth. He hands it to Viktor, and lingers in the warmth that sparks in his chest when he hears Viktor’s breath catch.

“Oh my god,” he whispers in Russian, as if he can barely believe his eyes. He keeps looking from the picture to the dog at his side to Yuuri then back to the picture. “She’s so _big._ ”

“She is. But still a puppy, really.”

“She has grey hairs.”

“Only a few.”

Viktor swallows so loudly that Yuuri can almost hear it. “She is… she is healthy?”

“Very.”

There are tears glistening in Viktor’s eyes and he keeps them locked on his dog, still young and small. Yuuri wants nothing more than to reach out and hold him.

“How old are you, Yuuri?”

Yuuri blinks at the non-sequitur. “I’m twenty-five.”

“And I am…”

“Twenty-nine.”

Viktor’s brow furrows. “ _Twenty-nine,_ ” he whispers in Russian, like he can’t bring himself to believe the words.

“Don’t worry, you still have hair,” Yuuri promises, a soft smile on his lips. “Unlike Yakov.”

Viktor laughs, but the sound is heavy and forms a pit in Yuuri’s stomach. Viktor looks up, searching Yuuri’s eyes, as vulnerable as Yuuri has ever seen him. “And when do we…”

Yuuri wishes he had a different answer, but he would never lie to this man—this _boy_. “You were twenty-seven,” he states.

Yuuri can see the cogs in Viktor’s head spinning as he does the arithmetic, and the answer is _nine_ and it’s way too high. The disappointment that flits across Viktor’s eyes stabs Yuuri in the chest. “I see,” he mutters.

Yuuri wants to say _it’s not so long, it’s not so bad_ but he surprises himself instead and says, “Don’t wish it away, Vitya.”

Viktor scoffs. “That’s easy for you to say. You get to... to…” He waves a dismissive hand instead of finishing his thought.

It isn’t fair, Yuuri can agree. And it _is_ easy for Yuuri to say _it gets better_ with a golden ring sitting solidly on his right hand. He wonders if Viktor has noticed it yet.

Yuuri frowns, carefully phrasing and rephrasing the words in his head until he knows what he wants—needs—to say to this lonely, desperate, younger version of the man he loves.

“The next nine years aren’t easy,” he begins slowly, “but they aren’t _bad._ How you’re feeling right now, it will come and go.”

A sad smile passes across Viktor’s lips. “And I suppose you know that because—”

“Because you told me yourself,” Yuuri finishes. “You have so many wonderful things ahead of you, before you even meet me.”

That, at least, seems to perk him up. “I do?”

This answer Yuuri can truly delight in, and his mouth curves up into a knowing smile. “Mhm.”

Viktor sits up straight, his eyes wide and fixed completely on Yuuri. “I win again?”

Yuuri only smiles more. “ _Mhm._ ”

“Stop being so cryptic! Do I win often?”

Yuuri’s smile is a grin now, and his chest swells with pride as he replies: “More than any other figure skater in history.”

_“Oh.”_

Viktor, for his part, looks slightly shell-shocked. Yuuri allows himself to imagine, for just a moment, how he would have reacted at this age if someone had told him what lay ahead in his skating career—Grand Prix Final and World’s and _Olympic_ gold. He wouldn’t have believed it; or, if presented with any form of solid proof, he might have passed out on the spot.

“But that, all of that– it doesn’t matter,” Yuuri reminds him slowly.

“It doesn’t?”

Yuuri forgets, sometimes, how much of Viktor’s life before they met was skating. Not just the amount of time in his life that skating occupied—between practices and conditioning and competitions and choreography, surely the percentage was absurdly high. But the most worrisome part, for Yuuri, was always those times that he noticed Viktor acting as though all he was—to Yuuri, to the world, to _himself_ —was Living Legend, Gold Medalist Viktor Nikiforov.

What must it have been like for him, before he was even _that?_

Viktor now, the Viktor Nikiforov of May 2018, knows how to skate without winning gold. He knows how to get bronze at Worlds or silver at the Grand Prix Final and not feel as though he’s fallen from the top of the podium, but helped others climb it. He knows how to skate because he loves it and let the quad race be damned. He knows how to forget Viktor Nikiforov and let Vitya step out onto the ice instead.

“You know, right now,” Yuuri says, “there’s a boy in Japan with posters of you all over his walls. He’s fourteen, and just started competing in Juniors. His dream is to make it to international competitions. Do you know why?”

Viktor, eyes fixed only on Yuuri, is enraptured. His adam’s apple bobs and he asks, “Why?”

“Because of you,” Yuuri answers, and relishes in the sweet smile that forms on Viktor’s face. “He looks up to you. He wants to skate on the same ice as you. He’s never seen anyone skate with the beauty you do, and he’s going to spend the rest of his career trying to do justice to how much you’ve inspired him.”

Bright blue eyes glisten like the sea. “Ah. That is…” Viktor blinks and clears his throat. “You’re a skater?”

Yuuri nods.

“A good skater?” Viktor guesses.

“Well,” Yuuri shrugs with true false modesty, “I’ve beaten you.”

“ _Wow.”_

“But only because your coaching helped me do it.”

“...Coaching?”

Viktor looks so like a child in that moment, all the wonderment in his eyes of a boy of eight instead of eighteen. Yuuri feels soft, so soft inside.

“I told you there’s a lot to look forward to, Vitya.”

When the boy replies, his voice is faint. “It doesn’t… Right now, it doesn’t…”

Yuuri reaches over and takes his hand, warm and welcoming and intimately familiar. He squeezes Viktor’s fingers, and Viktor squeezes back.

“I don’t know what to do,” Viktor admits, his voice faint. “I work so hard, every day, but seniors is…”

Yuuri nods. “It’s tough.”

“I need a change.”

A beat, then Yuuri asks, “What kind of change?”

Viktor shrugs. “Yakov, I’ve been trying to talk to him about…” The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “About the flip.”

“Ah.”

“And I’ve been thinking of cutting my hair.”

“ _Oh_.”

Yes, that would be right about now, wouldn’t it?

Viktor squints, studying Yuuri’s face carefully. “Are you disappointed?”

“Never.” It’s the honest truth. Even back then, when the rumors started to fly and Viktor first unveiled his new haircut, Yuuri had only mourned the change for the split second before he saw how handsome and _masculine_ Viktor looked with his slight undercut and sweeping bangs.

“It makes _me_ a little sad,” Viktor confesses. The hand not holding Yuuri’s reaches up and smooths a strand of hair over his shoulder. It’s tangled, and in sore need of brushing. “Short hair is boring.”

Yuuri squeezes his hand again. “But do you want to do it?”

Viktor thinks for a moment, long and hard with his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” he declares. “Every time I go to do it, though, I just… can’t.”

There’s no doubt in Yuuri’s mind, in that moment. He stands from the couch, barely sparing a glance at the mugs of tea gone cold on the coffee table, and pulls Viktor up by his hand.

“What are you…?”

“Come with me.”

Makkachin pads after them as they walk back down the hall, back into Viktor’s room, back into the bathroom. Yuuri leads Viktor to the toilet and sits him down on the closed lid. It takes Yuuri a few tries to find what he’s looking for—the bathroom drawers were also rearranged when he moved in—but eventually his fingers lock around the cold metal and he smiles.

He sets the pair of scissors down on the sink and watches Viktor’s eyes go wide.

“If you want… I can—”

“Yes,” Viktor replies, breathless.

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes.”_

“Mari’s—I mean, my sister, she keeps her hair short, and I’d help her trim the edges sometimes. I can’t promise it will look perfect, but…”

“It will be better than anything I do, I am sure.”

The details, Yuuri knows, are not important. The subtle undercut, the exact length and swoop of his bangs, can all be achieved by a stylist later, once the bulk of his hair has been cut off.

Those gleaming, silver, signature locks that float out behind him when he take the ice, _chopped off_ — Yuuri understands Viktor’s sadness at letting them go, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, something else takes root in Yuuri’s heart as he looks down at the terribly young, perfectly vulnerable version of his fiancé sitting wide-eyed on the plastic toilet cover, and at first he cannot place the feeling but…

But then he remembers, sitting at the dinner table late into the night with a pen and a pad of paper, scribbling words in his native language that flowed from him in an inspired torrent; he remembers hearing them in his head, remembers imagining what it would be like to say them out loud in just a few short days, standing in front of their friends and family and promising to love and hold and cherish and constantly strive to be worthy of the man he’ll soon call his husband.

As Viktor turns his back to Yuuri, entrusting in him an important part of himself, the same feeling settles on his chest as when he wrote his wedding vows—a terrifying and profoundly beautiful sense of responsibility to the man before him.

Yuuri’s cuts are careful but deliberate. He always imagined what it might be like to hold Viktor Nikiforov’s long hair in his hands, the same hair that had trailed out behind him when twelve-year-old Yuuri saw him skate for the very first time on a small, grainy TV at Ice Castle Hasetsu. He has, briefly, entertained the idea of asking if Viktor would grow it out again. And now, actually being here, it’s everything and nothing like he imagined. The cool locks slide through Yuuri’s fingers like silk as he ties them into a low ponytail. The scissors glide right through them, and there’s an unnerving _snip_ before the bundle of hair falls to the ground. Yuuri picks it up and places it in Viktor’s lap.

“Are you alright?”

Viktor’s long fingers trail down the length of the severed hair. “I…” He swallows. “My head feels so light.”

“You will get used to it quickly, I think. Let me trim it now, alright?”

“Alright,” Viktor whispers, eyes still locked on the bundle of hair like he cannot believe his eyes.

The shoulder-length strands become shorter and shorter until Yuuri has stylized Viktor’s hair into something resembling the style of his fiancé. Viktor gasps a tiny breath when Yuuri cuts across his bangs and lets them swoop over his left eye.

“Would you like to see?”

Viktor nods and Yuuri offers a hand to help him up. Fingers intertwined, they stand together before the bathroom mirror; Yuuri smiles as he sees Viktor’s mouth fall open in a precious ‘o’.

“Wow.”

“Do you like it?”

“I…” Viktor’s free hand, the one not wrapped up in Yuuri’s, swipes through his hair and pushes back the bangs like he can hardly believe it. And then he grins. “I think I love it."

Yuuri squeezes Viktor’s fingers. “I love it, too.”

If Yuuri does not move him, Viktor might stay in front of the mirror forever. He guides the both of them out of the bathroom, toward Viktor’s bed that will one day become theirs. They sit down on the edge of the mattress, hardly any room between them this time.

“I want to show you something,” Yuuri begins, the welcome weight of responsibility still an honor on his chest. He pulls his wallet from his pocket once again, but this time stops on the first picture he finds, fishing it out and offering it to the boy beside him.

Viktor accepts the photo with trembling hands, and doesn’t say anything for a long time. His face is nearly unreadable, and Yuuri has come to learn that, in these situations, it is best to simply wait.

“This is…”

“Us,” Yuuri finishes. Their engagement photo shoot had been in Hasetsu on a clear spring day, just on the tail-end of the cherry blossom season. Yuuri had loved each and every one of the photos; deciding on which to keep in his wallet was an agonizing decision.

Ultimately, he went with the photo of the two of them on one of the benches outside of Hasetsu Castle, looking over the small town. There were petals in the air and in their hair. At the time, Yuuri hadn’t realized that the moment was being captured as Viktor pressed a tender kiss to the tip of Yuuri’s nose. Both of them are smiling.

Yuuri holds up his right hand, letting the golden ring catch the soft light.

“We are getting married tomorrow. You and I.”

There is silence again. The freshly-cut bangs obscure Viktor’s eyes for a moment, and Yuuri reaches out to swipe them back and—

Viktor’s eyes are welled with tears. A drop overflows and lands on the picture trembling in his fingers.

“Oh, Vitya.”

He cries so quietly, so beautifully, and Yuuri’s heart calls out to hold him. All distance between them is erased as Yuuri snakes an arm around Viktor’s waist and pulls him in close, allowing Viktor to bury his face in the crook of Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri hears, up close, the sniffling and the quiet, hiccuping gasps that come from the boy in his arms, and he only holds him tighter. His hand rubs comforting circles on Viktor’s back, wondering at how slight his fiancé was, even at eighteen.

“Shh,” Yuuri whispers, “it’s okay.”

There’s a moment, a long moment, and then the sniffles become sobs that tear themselves from Viktor’s throat and wrack his teenage frame. Viktor buries his face further against Yuuri’s already-wet skin and clings to the back of his shirt with his hands balled into fists.

Yuuri, however, sees this moment for what it is—sadness, yes, but also relief and desperation and hope and a lifetime’s worth of festering emotions with no outlet. They come flowing out now, all at once, in the arms of a man Viktor must know implicitly that he can trust with himself, with his fears, with his entire being. He holds fast to Yuuri as he sobs and lets himself be comforted, but most importantly he lets himself be _seen._

“It’s okay, Vitya. I love you. I know you. I love you.”

Something wet slips down Yuuri’s cheek, cool against his flushed skin, and he realizes he is crying, too. How could he not? He lets the tears come and holds fast to Viktor with everything he has, hoping that it can be enough

Time slips by strangely, here, and Yuuri feels every second, every beat of both of their hearts, even as they fly by all at once. Eventually, there are no tears left, and Viktor’s body stills. The fists balled around the back of Yuuri’s shirt loosen, and some of the tension drains from Viktor’s shoulders.

“Let’s lay down, hm?” Yuuri suggests, reaching out to place the photo on the bedside table. They move together to lay down properly, with their heads atop the pillows and hands intertwined at their sides. The ceiling hasn’t changed in the past eleven years—there’s still that long crack toward the corner that Yuuri traces and retraces when he cannot fall asleep.

“Tell me about our wedding?” Viktor asks into the darkness. His voice is hoarse.

The request brings a smile to Yuuri’s lips. His fingers smooth over the back of Viktor’s choppily-cut hair, and he gets a small sigh of contentment in return.

“Well,” Yuuri begins, “we are having it in Japan, in my hometown. All of our family and friends are going to be there. You insisted on wearing a white tux, and I will be in black. What else? Let’s see… You were the one who picked the food. Of course, you asked for my input, but you had such a vision and I wanted to go along with it. It will be delicious. The caterers are some of the best in the prefecture, of course, you wouldn’t settle for anything less…”

Yuuri goes on, speaking of the music and the table settings and the flavor of cake (that actually ended up being five flavors, in five separate tiers, because neither of them could decide). He regales Viktor with the details of their rings, the inscription inside of them, and their well-intentioned but ill-fated attempts to train Makkachin as a ring bearer.

At some point, Yuuri realizes that Viktor has fallen asleep. His fingers have gone slack around Yuuri’s, his eyelids have drifted shut, and his breathing has evened out to a pattern that’s low and deep and soothing in the quiet, surreal night.

The blissful peace on Viktor’s face makes Yuuri’s heart settle, and he smiles. He rolls over and, with a smiling mouth, presses a kiss to his Vitya’s warm forehead.

“I will see you soon,” he promises, then lays down and drifts into the darkness.

 

\- - -

 

Eleven years and seven thousand kilometers away, Katsuki Yuuri awakens in his childhood bedroom, his soon-to-be-husband fast asleep and drooling on his chest. Outside the window the sun crests on the horizon, but downstairs he can already hear his family moving about. Dishes clank in the kitchen, doors open and shut, and Makkachin, ever the early riser, barks happily at someone.

 _Today,_ Yuuri thinks, glancing over at the two garment bags hanging in the closet. He pets Viktor’s hair, slowly, softly, and kisses the totally-not-balding patch at the crown of his head. Viktor moans as he begins to stir.

“Good morning.”

“Mm,” Viktor hums, lifting his face from Yuuri’s chest and blinking up at him with bleary eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov.”

“Not yet!” Yuuri objects, but Viktor only chuckles and lets his head fall back down.

“You’re right,” he mumbles. “Not yet. Sleep more.”

“Vitya! We can’t let my family do everything.”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right…” Viktor agrees, but does not stir.

“Vitya?”

“Mm?”

“I’m proud of you.”

Viktor chuckles. “What did I do this time?”

“Nothing.” Yuuri shrugs. “Everything. I’m proud of you, and I’m glad I’m yours.”

Viktor reaches up and cups a warm hand against the side of Yuuri’s face. His smile is as blinding as the rising sun. “And you’re mine.”

Yuuri takes that hand in both of his, holds it fast, and presses a kiss to Viktor’s palm with all of the tenderness in the world.

“Yes. _Yes_. Always.”  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I would really love to know what you thought! 
> 
> find me on tumblr at [stammiviktor](http://stammiviktor.tumblr.com)


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